An insistent discomfort in my ear, and an odd sensation of falling, slowly ended my neck cramping nap. Palm Springs was slipping into view through the crack in my window shade on the port, and I could see the all too near peak of Mt. San Jacinto slide by to starboard. Coming into Ontario, CA from the north is always a thread-the-needle deal.
The pilot has to fly a glide path that nearly circles back on itself from the original approach. Over Palm Springs, slide by Big Bear, right pitch & yaw towards the valley floor of the Inland Empire; dropping altitude, and shedding airspeed with twists and turns. That’s what’s required, but this guy is having way to much fun!
It reminds me of the milk run flight – the actual dairy product - from Maui to the Island of Lanai back in the 70’s. Lanai was just a pineapple plantation then. For those in the know, it could also be a rather cool retreat at the huge log lodge built there back in the 30’s. In the 70's the lodge was then operated by Dole as a summer employee hostel and cafeteria.
I was dating the dairy owner’s younger son. He would deliver the cans to Maui airport, then ride over to Lanai with the pilot to unload them at the other end. The plane was an old twin-prop WWII transport – don’t ask me what kind. Silvery and sleek, yet bulky looking. Even the finest earplugs, and your hands to boot, couldn’t drown out the deafening noise of those props! Loaded up, we'd taxi to about the halfway point, turn, throttle up, then drive down the runway, and jerk up into the sky. We'd barely get air before we passed over the interisland channel, then over Lanai itself. Because of strong prevailing winds, we'd pull a 180 – both back and down - in order to drop the airspeed to what the pilot jokingly called “crash & burn.” Just when your heart (and other organs) were about to fall from your mouth, he'd set us down like a fixed wing “helicopter” on a patch of red earth smaller than a football field. This was not for the faint of heart - but pilots will understand. They love this kind of shit! So do I.
Sometimes we’d stay for breakfast. They had the freshest free range eggs! You'd often hear a chicken squawking soon after your order was taken. The eggs were most often accompanied by some kind of fish – caught that morning on the rocks below the cliff at the lodge. You could get sausage, but because it had to be flown in, it was more expensive than fish. Dole Executives ate sausage. The “hash” browns were actually raw McDonalds French fries, thawed, cut in half lengthwise, and grilled up with thinly sliced Maui onions and green pepper - if you asked nicely; a greasy mess, if you didn't.
Back on the milk plane with full stomachs, the return flight was a breeze. No need to take off really, the strip ended at the cliff’s edge, so you were “airborne” no matter how fast you were going at the time.
As our path into Ontario International Airport settles down to business, the landscape immediately below our plane changes from employee filled industrial boxes as far as the eye can see, to green manicured grass and blinking blue lights on sticks. I find myself instinctively placing my hand on the tray table I'd pressed against the seat ahead. Good timing! Just at that moment the rubber met the road. I flashed on that TV commercial for Bridgestone Tires where the 747 lands on a clutch of what look like monster truck tires. Emerging from the cloud of burning rubber, a pilot type enters the stop-action shot and says he wouldn’t want to trust his passengers to anything else. So, little plane o’mine, are they Bridgestone or are they Memorex?
My instincts are rewarded, and my bracing hand prevents me from being pushed violently forward, as our pilot demonstrates he still has a little left in him. He’s chosen to hit the runway at a speed one would think not in the best interests of building much of a frequent flyer clientele. His need for speed is quickly reversed as he slams on the air brakes. The roar of the reversing engine thrust sets off the "warning baby" like a smoke alarm. As we turn for the terminal, I silently compliment him for what could be described as a nicely executed airplane version of the classic police car spin out. Like I said, pilots love this shit.
I’m on the ground and heading for baggage claim. My brother is late. He's usually standing at the bottom of the escalator but, today, he’s nowhere to be seen. I got my bag in under 15 minutes of stepping off the plane – and that’s only because the walk is longer from Southwest's gates than from Alaska’s. My brother is still not visible. I nervously pace the White-Zone-For-Loanding-And-Unloading-Passengers-Only. All the other people seem to have family and friends! He sent me a confirming e-mail, for crissakes! E-mails are the truth, right? Don’t we all believe that?
It’s been over 30 minutes now, and I finally fall on mercy of the smartly uniformed Customer Service volunteer. She looks to be about 90 years old. White haired and frail looking, she lets you know with a glance that she expects you to stand up straight and eat your vegetables! Her name tag says Sonia, but that just didn’t fit. She must be a Maude, or Pearl, or one of those two-part southern names like Betty Joe. Since I had no loose change and only a $50 bill she could not cash, she was kind enough to call my Dad‘s house. He was kind enough to answer on the first ring. My brother would be late, he announced. He’d read my departure time as my arrival and would be at least an hour late. Why don't they have highly visible clocks in airpots? This wasn't Vegas.
After what seemed like an eternity, but actually about 25 minutes later, my brother came sprinting into view. Having abandoned his vehicle in the White-We-Will-Take-Your-Firstborn-Zone, he was frantic that I obey his demand to “Come On! Come on!” as he turned on a dime and dashed back to his beloved – a 1969 fully restored Chevy Camero. I lingered just long enough to make sure he spotted the airport officer coming the other way, then dropped my bag at his feet and got in.
Only 97 miles of California’s finest concrete between me and my destination. Let’s roll!
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